The House of the Hanged Woman (Albert Lincoln)

by Ellis, Kate

  To take his mind off his son, he focused on the investigation into Bert Pretting’s murder. It had happened so soon after Billinge’s disappearance and the discovery of the unidentified body in the cave that he felt obliged to take charge – at least until it had been firmly established that there was no connection between the three cases. Hopefully, the stabbing of Bert Pretting in an alleyway would be an easy one to sort out. People who commit such murders are rarely expert at covering their tracks.

  His first priority was to speak to Rose Pretting, who was languishing in a cell at the police station, but he didn’t relish the prospect of interviewing the suspect in her cell so he asked for her to be brought to his office. Somewhat reluctantly, Constable Wren obeyed.

  Ten minutes later Rose Pretting entered the room with Wren walking closely behind as if he was afraid she’d make a run for it. She looked tiny and vulnerable, almost childlike. When Albert told him to leave them alone, Wren opened his mouth to protest. It took a stern look to make him retreat, leaving the door open behind him. Albert got up to close it and invited Rose to sit.

  Albert took the seat on the other side of the desk. He’d seen her at the mortuary but now he had a chance to study her more closely, he was struck by how young she looked. Her eyes were wide and a bright, cornflower blue with long lashes and, like last time, she was dressed in the latest fashion. He’d seen such dresses on women in London, but he guessed that Rose’s version was home-made. He imagined her working on it at a sewing machine which was probably her pride and joy.

  He gave her a reassuring smile. ‘I hope your stay in the cells hasn’t been too uncomfortable, Mrs Pretting.’

  ‘They’re saying I killed Bert.’ The words came out in a whisper.

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘No. I was at home. I went to bed around ten o’clock and fell asleep. I didn’t realise he hadn’t come home until the next morning.’

  ‘Can anyone confirm that?’

  ‘No. Our maid, Betty, doesn’t live in ’cause we haven’t got the room. I was on my own.’

  He leaned forward and gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Tell me about Bert.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘He was ten years older than me. Worked as senior clerk at the mill. It’s a good job.’

  ‘I’m sure it is. Where did you meet?’

  ‘I lived in Cheadle with my mother. It’s not far from Stockport – you won’t know it.’

  ‘I do, as a matter of fact. I was there last year,’ he said, recalling the time when he went to the village to interview a witness while he was investigating the murder of a woman in Mabley Ridge near Wilmslow.

  Rose looked surprised. ‘Bert was a clerk at Cheadle bleach works. He wasn’t there long before he got the job in Wenfield. It meant more money.’

  ‘Has he always lived in the area?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. He comes from the Wirral – that’s across the river from Liverpool. Then after he did his bit in the war he changed his job and moved to Cheadle. The bleach works job was a step up, he always said. Then he got the post here in Wenfield. Senior clerk.’ She leaned forward as though she was about to share a confidence. ‘He reckoned that when Mr Perkins, the chief clerk, retired he was bound to step into his shoes.’

  ‘He was ambitious.’

  She nodded. ‘I suppose he was.’

  ‘What about your marriage? Were you happy?’

  The answer was a long silence.

  Albert hadn’t thought of Mary all day, but his last question brought her to the forefront of his mind. Had she been taken out of hospital as Vera intended? Was she lying at home as they spoke, with Vera and the Reverend Gillit watching over her? He felt a sudden stab of conscience, asking himself how he could sit in judgement on the woman in front of him when his own shortcomings as a husband were so great. But he had a job to do so he carried on.

  ‘How did you and Bert get on?’

  ‘All right, I suppose.’

  ‘I’ve heard he was a bully.’

  Rose bowed her head so Albert couldn’t see her expression.

  ‘He picked on one of the junior clerks at work and his colleagues were wary of him,’ he continued. ‘In my experience, men like that often take their frustrations out on their wives when they get home. You must have had a lot to put up with.’

  When she looked up, Albert saw gratitude in her eyes, as though she was glad someone understood at last.

  ‘He made you unhappy. And then you met someone else. A man who was everything Bert wasn’t. Kind, loving, thoughtful.’

  A small smile played on her lips but she didn’t answer.

  ‘If this man loves you, he must have been furious about the way Bert treated you.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘Who is he, Rose? I’m not judging you for what you’ve done, but I want to speak to him. I need to eliminate him from our enquiries.’

  She straightened her back and jutted out her chin. ‘I won’t betray him. I’d never do that.’

  ‘I understand. But I do need to ask him some questions.’

  ‘Why? Bert fell out with someone in the Carty Arms and got into a fight.’

  ‘With the man you’re seeing?’

  ‘No. Definitely not. He would never stoop so low. Never.’

  ‘Anybody’s capable of murder, given the provocation.’

  She shook her head vigorously. ‘Not him. Never.’

  ‘Or did you wait for him that night and stab him yourself? I’d understand if you did. You must have been desperate.’

  ‘It’s not true. I never harmed him.’

  ‘But you wanted to.’

  ‘That’s not the same.’

  ‘Did you put glass in his food?’

  She looked up at him, tears glistening in her eyes. ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Letters were found hidden in the bottom of your wardrobe. Who wrote them?’

  Her cheeks turned red, but she didn’t answer.

  ‘Who were the letters from?’

  Another silence.

  ‘They mention ways to get rid of your husband. Ground glass in his food. Broken glass.’

  ‘Bert was a brute. I dreamed of him dying but I never did nothing. Honest.’

  She began to sob, looking around her for escape like a cornered animal. Albert knew he’d get nothing more out of her that day, so he went to the door and called for someone to take her back to the cells. He suspected that she knew more about Bert Pretting’s death than she was admitting and he knew any jury was bound to judge her harshly. A woman who conspires with another man to kill her husband can expect no mercy, whatever she has had to endure at his hands.

  It was getting late and Mrs Jackson was expecting him back at the Black Horse for his evening meal. Before he left he asked Constable Wren for Rose Pretting’s door key and put it in his pocket.

  Chapter 40

  The library in Wenfield was a fine building and before returning to the Black Horse Albert took advantage of the late opening hours and called in. He had a question to ask and if the answer was yes, he would know for sure. If not, there was a chance he was wrong. When he thought of Rose and her innocent blue eyes he hoped the answer would be no.

  But Miss Hubbard the librarian, a severe-looking woman in a crisp white blouse, gave him an answer that seemed to confirm his worst suspicions. Mrs Pretting had renewed The Garden of Secrets by Cecilia Yarmouth five times in all, which was surprising because she was normally a fast reader. The librarian answered the question matter-of-factly without asking why Albert wanted to know.

  He was about to turn away from the handsome mahogany counter when the librarian spoke again. ‘I hear Mrs Pretting has been arrested.’

  The woman’s bright eyes were focused on his face. She would detect a lie in a second, he thought. He could have done with her at Scotland Yard. ‘We have been questioning her, yes.’ He paused. ‘Have you ever seen her with a man?’

  Miss Hubbard smiled and the impression of severity vanished in an instan
t. ‘You mean a man who wasn’t her husband? No, never.’

  Albert thanked her, putting on his hat as he left the building. It had begun to drizzle and he asked himself whether he should be putting so much effort into the Pretting case. He was there to find Henry Billinge – but there was something about Rose Pretting that made him want to protect her. He suspected that if Teague had his way she’d meet the same fate as Flora Winsmore, and this was something he wouldn’t allow to happen if he could help it.

  He couldn’t help wondering whether Henry Billinge was really out there trapped somewhere underground in the wild, hilly landscape. Was he suffering a slow and agonising death at that moment – or had death already claimed him? According to Teague, a search of the nearby countryside had been made, but had it been thorough enough? Albert had no choice but to trust the men with local knowledge, and there were still more lines of enquiry he had to follow before he could reach any sort of conclusion, pessimistic or otherwise.

  When he reached the Black Horse, Mrs Jackson was waiting for him with a letter. He recognised the handwriting on the envelope as Vera’s and he felt his hand shaking as he took it, hoping Mrs Jackson hadn’t noticed.

  ‘It’s stew and dumplings tonight,’ she said.

  Stew with dumplings was his favourite so at least this was one piece of good news. He hoped Vera’s letter would contain more – although he wasn’t optimistic. Before dinner he went to his room to read it.

  Mary is home. She didn’t like the hospital and the nurses were very rude to the Reverend Gillit when he called. They said he was upsetting her but that was a terrible lie because the reverend has always been a great comfort to her; her only comfort because you think nothing of going away and leaving your wife in her hour of need. I have not called Dr Hughes because Mary doesn’t want him. She says she hopes it won’t be long now before she passes to the other side to be with Frederick but I tell her not to be so foolish.

  He and Mary had long since stopped being a loving couple but Vera’s words made his eyes prick with tears as memories of their courtship and early marriage flashed through his mind. He had loved Mary once.

  He stared at the paper and saw a drop of water land on it, blurring the ink. Then he realised it was a tear. His own tear, shed for a woman who’d been his world in happier times. He wiped his sleeve across his face, annoyed with himself. Mary had done nothing wrong. He was the one who’d been unfaithful, both in reality and in his heart. He’d failed as a husband.

  He ate alone, barely tasting Mrs Jackson’s stew and dumplings because possible solutions to his multiple dilemmas kept running through his head. When he thought of work, he didn’t have to think of what was happening to Mary.

  The mystery of the naked man in the cave intrigued him the most. Someone had robbed him of his clothes and beaten his face to a pulp. But had that been an act of spite or had the motive been to hide his true identity? And if so, why go to such lengths? He was still awaiting Dr Kelly’s verdict on whether the victim was poisoned. If the test results confirmed that was the case, it would make the case even more puzzling.

  Once he’d cleared his plate he thanked the landlady automatically before retiring to his room where he undressed and fell asleep right away. And when he slept he dreamed of Charlotte Day, the woman he’d seen lovingly framed in silver at Tarnhey Court, with her child. She was in a field, monochrome as in the photograph and frozen to the spot, while the baby boy crawled towards him calling out ‘Father’ in Frederick’s voice.

  Chapter 41

  When Albert arrived at the police station the next morning he was still undecided about returning to London to be at Mary’s bedside. Despite Mary’s dramatic pronouncements about the imminence of death, Vera had said nothing to support this, so he felt it was safe to delay his trip back to the capital until his investigations in Wenfield had made more progress. But just to be on the safe side, he asked Smith to look up train times for the following day. If it turned out Mary was indeed nearing the end, he would never forgive himself if he wasn’t there with her. Teague would have to manage on his own.

  In the meantime it was good that he had a distraction from the dark thoughts whirling around his head. Albert knew from long experience that as soon as Rose Pretting was charged it would attract the more undesirable kind of newspaperman to Wenfield. There was nothing the press relished more than a young woman with the face of an angel accused of slaughtering her innocent and unsuspecting husband. The fact that Bert Pretting was an unpleasant piece of work wouldn’t matter. Once the press had finished with him, he’d be a candidate for sainthood.

  And once they’d descended on Wenfield in force, reporters would soon get wind of the Billinge story. Until now the affair had been dealt with discreetly, but within days it would be headline news if he didn’t find the missing MP – alive or dead.

  He opened the file on Henry Billinge’s disappearance and began to read and reread the statements of the people who had attended the dinner party at Tarnhey Court. Teague’s initial questioning had been discreet and superficial, as though he hadn’t wanted to offend his social superiors by delving too deeply. Albert, however, had no such qualms. He’d already spoken to Mr Jones, the mill manager, but as his wife had also been at the dinner he wanted to question her too. Women are often better observers than men, he’d found – and her husband had observed that Billinge preferred to speak to the ladies.

  He pulled on his overcoat and told Smith, who was manning the front desk, that he wouldn’t be long.

  He knew Jones would be at work so he made for the manager’s house, which was a short walk from the mill. The large stone-built house stood on the edge of the village, double fronted and imposing with sparkling paintwork and a flight of wide stone steps leading up to a glossy red front door. Some people of the wealthier sort expected a police officer to use the tradesman’s entrance, but Albert had no time for such snobbery. He climbed the steps, ignoring the stiffness in his leg, then raised the door knocker, let it fall three times and waited.

  The young maid who answered wore an immaculate starched apron and a wary expression. She looked him up and down suspiciously, but he removed his hat, gave her a reassuring smile and asked whether Mrs Jones was at home.

  ‘Who shall I say is calling, sir?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Lincoln of Scotland Yard. Tell her there’s no need to worry. It’s a routine matter.’

  He was admitted into a wide hallway and asked to wait. Five minutes later the girl returned and led him into a handsome drawing room where a slender woman with a face that reminded Albert of a cat’s sat on a sofa by the fireplace, flicking through a glossy periodical. With her short skirt and fashionably styled blonde hair, she looked as though she belonged on the pages of a magazine herself. When she set her reading matter to one side and invited Albert to sit, he observed that her accent was a more pronounced version of Gwen Davies’s, which suggested she was from the Liverpool area. She appeared considerably younger than her careworn husband, and far from the delicate creature portrayed by Mr Jones.

  ‘What can I do for you, Inspector? I hope you haven’t come to arrest me,’ she said with a coquettish smile.

  ‘I’m hoping you might be able to help me, Mrs Jones.’

  ‘Jacqueline, please. Mrs Jones makes me sound so old. Was it you who questioned my husband about that clerk who got himself killed?’

  ‘Yes. But this is about another matter.’

  She took a silver cigarette case from the table to her right and offered it to Albert. He took a cigarette and as she lit it with her silver lighter he caught a whiff of her perfume; something heavy and expensive.

  ‘I don’t know whether you’ve heard that one of the guests at the dinner you attended at Sir William Cartwright’s house has gone missing. Mr Billinge went out for a walk the day after you met him and never returned.’

  Mrs Jones suddenly looked solemn. ‘Yes, I heard. Sergeant Teague asked my husband if he knew anything. He didn’t, of course. They say t
he countryside round here can be dangerous. They say sheep disappear down potholes and are never found again.’ She shuddered. ‘I sometimes wonder why my husband wanted to come here. It’s a dull place. And cold.’

  ‘You’re from Liverpool.’

  She looked at him curiously. ‘How did you … ?’

  ‘I knew someone from there once. I recognised the accent. How did you and Mr Jones meet?’

  She sniffed. ‘If you must know, I was a waitress. Met him when he was there on business.’

  ‘Bert Pretting came from the Wirral.’

  ‘Did he? I never met him.’ She hesitated. ‘I do hope poor Mr Billinge hasn’t met with an accident. If he wandered onto private land I’ve heard some of the gamekeepers aren’t slow to use their shotguns on trespassers. There are people from Manchester who think they have a right to walk anywhere they like.’ She sniffed again. ‘Good on ’em, if you ask me.’

  ‘All the gamekeepers on the estates round here have been questioned and nobody has admitted to seeing Mr Billinge up on the grouse moors. Did you speak to Mr Billinge over dinner?’

  ‘I tried to make small talk, as you do, but he seemed a bit distracted, as though he had things on his mind.’

  ‘You told Sergeant Teague this?’

  ‘He never asked me. The vicar was seated to my left, so the evening was hard work,’ she added meaningfully. ‘Reverend Fellowes is rather an odd sort of man – he kept staring at me in a way that made me very uncomfortable. But of course you’re not interested in what I think of the local clergy, are you? You’re looking for Mr Billinge.’

  ‘Have you heard about the man who was found in a cave near the Devil’s Dancers?’